


His Paintings

by general-krispy (choccyice)



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Long Shot, M/M, Oneshot, Paintbrush Sex, Smut, ipitythepeoplewhodidntreadthese, stitler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choccyice/pseuds/general-krispy
Summary: As the chancellor of Germany was having a rough day dealing with his past quarrels in the art realm, his soviet partner comes to his aid in a manner he could only describe as unholy.
Relationships: Adolf Hitler/Joseph Stalin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	His Paintings

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Yes I do acknowledge that Hitler and Stalin were monsters. This is just a creation of my imagination, what would happen if history were altered. And I know that Stalin and Hitler are slightly out of character.

He used to be an artist.  
He used to paint and sketch such majestic and beautiful artwork for his art exams in Vienna with his bare, teenager hands. His sketches were, and always have been, soft. The pressure he put on the pencil was minimum, unlike his flaring temper.

It's been years since he used his hands for the sole purpose of art. The once delicate fingers that would draw shapes that soon turned into nineteenth centure inspired artwork were now used to point fingers not only at maps, but also at people.

Yet there he was, in Berghof, his mountain residence, spinning his pencil on the slightly yellowed paper sheet, part of his almost full sketchbook. A few months ago, that bundle of manufactured wood covered by two thin cardboard piece barely had two terribly drawn sketches. Of course, they were only meant to be a base of the finished product that ironically he never did complete, but even so, the anatomy was certainly troubled.  
That was one of the two reasons that the sketchbook was oh so close to being filled entirely.  
The other was, well his love.

Adolf was planning to use the soviet's weak army and blitzkrieg right through it after the Moltov-Ribbentrop pact, but his head decided for that plan to be rid out of his mind. After the pact, his then ally, Iosif Stalin, had decided for the two to meet each other again for a cup of tea or, as in Iosif's words, "a glass of strong vodka". Although the leader of the Nazi party did not plan for the two to keep in touch, at least not on friendly terms, fate had other plans. After that afternoon which they spent in Soviet Russia, Hitler had invited Stalin to his own country, only for the two to enjoy dinner together in Germany. The two seemed to grow closer, in moments when they weren't able to physically meet, they would send hundreds and hundreds of letters. These letteres were never signed in a formal way, they were but a way of communication between friends.

As two years passed, Adolf had come to a terrible conclusion.  
He had fallen for Iosif, harder and easier than how France had fallen before him in 1940.  
Hitler was agitated, abashed even. How did he manage to submit to such a sin that he himself was starting to eliminate along the Jews with the events of the Holocaust? And why, out of all the people that inhibited this planet did his emotions have to be targeted towards the soviet man known as Iosif Vissarionovich Stalin whom he tried to take advantage of?  
Despite everything, the two kept seeing each other and sending just as many, or maybe even more letters than before.  
Adolf couldn't help himself. Although he clearly knew his sentiments were wrong, his actions betrayed his mind.

  
On one fateful day, Iosif Stalin, the man he adored so much, had sent him an invitation to his russian residence, the Kuntsevo Dacha, situated near the town of Kuntsevo. The Nazi party leader had debated the whole night whether or not to accept.  
His response was a firm yes.

Adolf figured out that he would hate to lose such a great friend, especially since he drove out anyone and everyone with his aggresive demeanor. And yet, he'd always been nothing but warm and open towards Iosif. That's how he was with his own words and actions, created a weakness for himself that the Allies shall never discover. The moment he arrived at the green colored residence, surrounder by a tall, black fence through which he could see a few lemon and apple trees and a rose patch in the front garden. A few guards opened the gate for Adolf, allowing him to enter the residence.  
Stalin was right there, at the door, waiting for his companion. As Hitler approached, Iosif nodded, giving a small "Privet!". The german nodded back, saying a greeting of his own language, "Hallo!". He loved it when their languages mingled and twisted together. The two shook hands after that, showing their mutual respect for one another.

Stalin invited the german inside his home, and upon entering, Hitler could spot a lobby with two cloakrooms. To his left he could see a door leading to who knows where, and on the left side of the Dacha, there was yet another door. And wouldn't you know it, to his front, yet another mysterious door towards some kind of living room, but that was just his guess. Iosif started to speak up.  
"Ostavb Nac" The Russian said, an order. And by how the guards obeyed by leaving the two of them to either explore the Dacha or simply discuss, he made a guess that Stalin had told the sentries to leave.

The german man turned his head to look to his left, fingers behind twirling and simply fidgeting in anticipation of what his companion's residence is like. He then turned to face the surprisingly older soviet, finally smiling after the whole ordeal that was arriving in Kunstevo, and then having to keep a straight face with the guards. The two missed each other, it had been quite a while since they managed to even write letters, since Hitler was busy with organizing the whole Holocaust and Britain resisting to fall after he split Poland with his comrade, unlike its former ally, France. As if that wasn't enough, the Empire of Japan had attacked the United States naval and military base that is Pearl Harbor, situated in Hawaii. Although there were clearly no advantages in joining the Japanese in the war against one of the world's most powerful forces, Germany was forced to help the Japanese Empire, thus giving Winston Churchill some relief, since he wouldn't have to fight two wars on two completely different fronts.  
Despite all of that, Adolf had decided to visit Stalin.

Interrupting the german, Iosif had started to present his residence. The shorter man had started to walk towards the door placed right in front of the two, opening it to reveal a large, rectangular shaped dining room. It was completely dominated by the long, polished table and the rose carpets, plus a few pictures of Lenin and the writer Maxim Gorky decorated the room. On one side of the chamber, there was an almost invisible door, noticed by the sharp-eyes leader of the Nazi party.

"Dies ist der Speisesaal in dem ich Treffen mit dem sowietischen Politburo orgapisiere," he had told him, in a language that they both understood well, since none of them spoke English very well, especially Stalin, that the room they were in was, of course, the dining room. the place where Iosif welcomed members of the Soviet Poliburo for the meetings.

"Ja..." Hitler answered, gazing at the pictures that were placed around them.

"Nun, sollen wir in den nachsten Raum geben?" the soviet questioned, wanted to know if Adolf wished for the two to explore the other rooms. Hitler nodded, following the shorter man towards the doors that led back to the two cloakrooms, and then to go towards the door on their right, opening yet another door to reveal a chamber that contained a bgig war-time desk and a couch. 

"Das ist meine Studie" Iosif said, indicating that this space was his study, then left the room, forcing Adolf to follow close as the two looked at the door stationed to the right of the Dacha. Pointing at the door that separated the room they were currently in and the mysterious one, Stalin had said, yet again, in german, that the door leads to two bedrooms.

Adolf seemed to like Stalin's home, admiring how everything was arranged, especially the rose carpets from the dining room. As the night began to show through one of the windows of the Kuntsevo Dacha, Stalin had decided to show Hitler his very one veranda, after taking ther jackets off of course. It was freezing cold out there, the place he spent the most time, even if it was winter. The soviet man had figured out that since he enjoyed staying on the veranda, he wished for Hitler to maybe also enjoy his time there.

  
The two talked and laughed, simply having a good time enjoying each other's company. Stalin had gotten to use German again, the language he missed speaking for a long time.  
As the two leaders finally settled on staying insdie, since the cold became so harsh, they stil conversed on their way back inside through the right side of the corridors, through the bedrooms and into Stalin's study.

The leaders then stopped to sit on the couch. Now that they stopped laughing ike idiots, they decided to share stories from childhood. Stalin seemed to grow fonder and fonder of the way Hitler was so expressive with both his mighty voice and the way his hands expressed every single emotion that was heard.

"Okay, Sie sind an der Reihe, eine Geschichte zu erzahlen," Adolf said. He pointed out it was the communists turn to tell a tale of his life.

"Nun, ich heiss fruher 'Koba', inspiriert vom 1883 erschienenen Roman 'The Pariicide'." he said, indicated how he used to be called 'Koba', like a character from the 1883 novel 'The Parricide'.

The german chuckled, growing more and more fond of the soviet. He felt as if he was on cloud nine every single time they spoke. He loved hearing Iosif's hard Georgian accent while speaking German or even Russian, he had considered a few times learning one of the two.

Hitler couldn't notice himself inching closer and closer to Stalin, he was that tranced by the other's speech. Just his simple accent, words and stories made his heart flutter. And even though he knew his mind was terribly wrong to think such thoughts, express such emotions, it was near impossible to suppress them every time the two leadres met. He wished and wished every night for him to finally admit to his attraction, but that was a mere way of making himself sleep better at night.

Iosif, noticing how close the german had gotten to him, raised an eyebrow, stopping mid sentence. Since the younger leader couldn't hear the other's accent lacing with the German language, he had finally realized how close the two were, Hitler obviously trespassing the other's personal space. As the chancellor or the Third Reich exited the soviet's space and going about fifty centimeters beyond, he looked away in shame.

"Es tu mir Leit" Adolf muttered showig his remorse for his subconcious actions. Stalin gazed at him, somewhat unsure of what to say.

"Sie mussen sich nicht entschuldigen," Iosif said, explaining that the taller should not feel remorse.

Hitler looked at him again, now his own personal space being violated by the other. A faint, almost as invisible as the door situated in the dining room blush dusted the german's cheeks.  
The russian was as hesitant as ever, but slowly yet surely pressed his lips against Hitler's, a blush of his own appearing on his light cheeks. It was wrong, oh so, so wrong, and yet it felt so natural and right, as the leaders' emotions were finally released. The kiss was brief, only lasting a few seconds as the two parted, staring at each other.

Adolf had recalled the memory with a smile on his face, setting his pencil aside and gazing at the millionth sketch he made of his love, Iosif Vissarionovich Stalin. As the soviet's name rolled off of his mind's nonexistened tongue, his smile grew ever so slightly.

Yet his moment of joy was cut short as he analyzed the lines he made by his pencil, his smile fading away. He still couldn't fix his anatomy skills, and that irritated the german to no end. Hitler tried and tried, but to no avail. He had a few more attempts, then silently grumbled in anger. No matter how many times he endeavored drawing Stalin, he never seemed to be pleased with the outcome.

Speak of the devil, the Georgian man knocked on the door to Adolf's study, being polite as always. Hitler answered with a short "Ja?", indicating that Stalin was welcome to enter the room on the second floor of the Berghof.  
As Iosif opened the door, he was greeted by the younger man's slight frown, which unsurprisingly upturned slightly at the sight of the soviet, while Stalin decided to take a seat on the couch situated in front of the small coffee table surrounded by three other chairs.  
The German got up from his seat at the desk, not bothering to place his pencils away, nor closing his sketchbook, which displayed his failed attempt at recreating the russian leader.

the small couch beside Iosif. He sighed, placing his hands over his knees, his shirt wrinkling up even more than it already did before.  
"Ist alles in Ordnung?" Stalin asked, wanting to know if his significant other was feeling alright.

Adolf nodded, shrugging his negative thoughts away for the moment, leaning his head back on the divan, looking at the white ceiling. He wished to tell the shorter what was on his mind, but he wanted to take a breath before speaking, anticipating that he may become aggressive with his wording. He hated losing in any shape or form of the action. Everyone did, but his anger tended to be more intense. His generals and people around him noticed that, so did Stalin.  
The Georgian understood Hitler's silence, waiting for him to be ready to speak. Iosif was generally more positive than the German, but he knew when to leave the other in silence and when to intervene.

"Ich bin nur ein bisschen frustriert," Hitler muttered at a tone that could barely be heard, a tone he almost never used. Yet Iosif could still hear him, the silence of the room failing to mask the other's words.

"Dart ich fragen warum?" Stalin said, a tad bit louder than how Adolf spoke before. He wished to know why his half wasn't feeling well, wanting to see if there was a way to make him smile.  
The German got up from his seat, making the soviet anticipate a shouting contest from the taller, but instead, the fuhrer walked over to his desk and grabbed his sketchbook, then oh so slowly handed it to the Georgian, sitting back down  
Stalin was confused at first, looking at the drawings with a dumbfounded expression on his face. He loved how the pencil lines built his figure, he even felt a little narcissisitic by thinking that he looked good in a drawing. Noticing that Iosif wasn't noticing what made Hitler upset, he sighed yet again speaking.

"Meine Anatomie ist schlecht ich kann dich nicht so zeichnen, wie ich will." the fuhrer uttered out, crossing his arms.

The communist was even more confused after that piece of dialogue. Again, he liked the way the portraits turned out, and he still wondered why Hitler wasn't agreeing on that matter.

"Aber sie sehnen so schon und gut gemacht aus..." the comrade muttered, accentuating his disagreement with Adolf's statement.  
Hitler shook his head, scoffing. "Nein, sie sehen schrecklich aus" he said, expressing his negative opinion on the pencil littered paper that Iosif stared at with such compassion.  
As Adolf decided to wander through his millions and millions of thoughts, an idea suddenly popped into his head, almost as if a lightbulb had been installed in his brain and lit up.

"Oder viellecht..." He was trying to piece together how to express the concept that formed into his mind.

"Ja?" Stalin asked, now curious to see what his significant other had contrived about.

"Oder viellecht... ich kann dich als Modell fur meine Bilder verwenden." The German said, looking at Iosif, questioning if he'd accept his request to use him as a model for his paintings.

The soviet leader had been quite surprised that the leader of the Nazi party would wish to use him as a model, but nonetheless agreed. If that would make him happy, then he himself would be happy.

"Sicher warum nicht?" Stalin said, agreeing to Hitler's somewhat odd request.  
The German gazed at him for a moment, then he allowed a small smile to form on his countenance. Iosif also smiled, it had been a while since he saw a genuine smile on Adolf's face.  
Speak of the devil, the taller man got up from the couch, heading for the door. "Bitte warten, Sie hier, wahrend ich einige Dinge sammle," Hitler said, pleading the other to stay where he was while the taller got a few things. Stalin had no trouble obliging.

As a few agonizingly slow minutes passed, a set of footsteps could be heard on the hall outside of the study, indicating that Adolf had returned.

A bumping sound was heard against the door. Curious, Iosif opened the door to see Adolf carrying an easel and a palette with a set of a watercolor paint, another set filled with brushes of all sorts, and finally, a decent sized canvas, all held in his hands. Stalin opened the door even wider so that the easel could fit in, and right after he was carrying the other end of the tall object, wanting to help in bringing all of these objects inside the study.  
Stalin let go of easel for a few seconds, only to grab the other materials Adolf had brought and placed them on the coffee table. After that, he grabbed the other end of the easel again, placing it on the floor, beside the rectangular shape that the two desks and the couch made out of their colliding edges. The object in question was facing the right corner of the room, its back being illuminated by the window that led to the study's balcony.

Adolf had given him a small "Danke", then procedeed to move on of the chairs behind the easel and to the left of it, making it easy for him to see his model. Afterwards, the taller had asked the shorter to sit down on said chair, leaving the decision of the position he would take in his hands as Hitler took his painting utensils and another two chairs in front of the easel, putting the chair he was going to sit on directly in front of the object he would set his canvas on, the other chair being placed a little to the right, being the space where his paints, brushes and palette shall sit on.  
As the German chancellor positioned his canvas on the small wooden pieces that the easel held, he adjusted the small iron pieces that lightened the wood piece to the easel itself.  
After a bit more adjusting, he wandered over to his main desk, grabbing a pencil not long before he sat down on the chair that was directly facing the canvas.

Now he was having a staring match with Stalin, taking in all of his facial features, not missing a single one.

After about a few seconds, he traced a decent sized circle on the canvas, on which he drew various lines and shapes that Iosif could only assume were the bases of an upcoming sketch.  
Hitler went between looking at the white fabric that represented the canvas and looking at Stalin while pointing his pencil upwards, seeming to measure the shorter's features. He wished for everything in his paintings to be perfect, no matter what.

After a good twenty minutes, in which Iosif barely managed to stay still, Hitler finally put his pencil away, cracking his knuckles and sighed as he finally finished the sketch, it was rough, oh so very rough, but it was noticeably better than his previous attempts at making art.  
Adolf had already grabbed his brush of choice, setting it aside on the small bottom wooden piece of the easel, then ever so gently grabbed the watercolor set.  
He gazed at it, staring at the small date written on it.

1941/4/20. His fifty-second birthday. Back then, he and Stalin merely had short meetings and wrote letters to each other, compared to the present day, where the two would stay days, maybe even weeks if possible at each other's residences.

Hitler had disclosed his passion for art in one of their meetings, and so, on his birthday, Stalin gifted him a set of paints. He was too afraid to use them at first, not wanting to ruin them, but there he was, finally opening them to paint the very person that gave those colors to him.  
He was smiling. He couldn't help it, and wouldn't. He let himself express his emotions when his significant other was there.  
Iosif didn't utter a single word, allowing the German to have his moment. It was short lived, yes, but it didn't matter as long as it was there.

As Adolf snapped back to reality, he chuckled to himself and fully opened the medium sized set of colors, being very delicate with it. He was a man of anger, yes, but he had his calm moments. Those were always when the Georgian was around, his very presence somewhat extinguishing the burning fire within him.

Opening up a small, red bottle of paint, and then four more of the color yellow, blue, white and black, he set each and every colorful paste on separate sections of his pallete, not too far but not too close from each other.  
Taking his brush, he decided to start with the background. Dipping the hair filled end of the utensil in red and then in the tiniest bit of white, he mingled the two, forming a lighter shade of red, which he started to apply to the canvas, the bright color contrasting with the white of the fabric used for the canvas.  
After some time, the background was filled, rough lines surrounding the sketch he made of Stalin, that part being left white.

Wiping the brush on a small piece of paper, then dipping it in a small glass of water he grabbed from the desk, originally meant for drinking, he picked another color, that one being yellow, then grabbing a little more red and the tiniest bit of blue, he mixed the three, forming a skin color that was a tone too dark compared to Iosif's. He put some white in the mix, making the color as close as it could get to the older man's tone.

He bit the wooden end of his paintbrush, hesitating in placing the newly formed color on the canvas.  
"Ich mag es, wenn du das tust," the soviet leader muttered, expressing how he loved it when Adolf bit his brush. He had seen him paint a few times, and he would never deny that when the taller bit his paintbrush, he didn't know why, but he loved seeing him do that.

Hitler gave a small confused hum, looking at the soviet leader, the lightest of shades of pink dusting his cheeks.

"Ich mag es, wenn du das tust," Iosif repeated, his cheeks rising up in temperature also, gazing into the deep, brown eyes of the German with his own amber orbs.  
The taller almost let out a chuckle at the shorter's comment, biting down harderon the wooden stick that was the end of the paintbrush, almost as if it were a tease.

Despite all of that, Adolf went back to covering the canvas in the creamy color that was supposed to represent Stalin's skin color. He became quite focused on the task, not noticing how the Georgian had come behind him, placing two firm hands on his not so broad shoulders. Hitler had almost jolted, looking back to see the soviet leader leaning down, inching his face closer and closer to the German. Just like he did the first time they shared one of these moments. Yet, this time, there was no hesitation as the two leaders' lips collided, both swirling their lips in the slightest of smiles, which grew little by little as the seconds passed.

After a little bit of time, the two separated, their smiles still present, not having a care in the world at that moment.  
Adolf finally allowed the suppressed chuckle to leave his throat.  
"Solltest du nicht auf diesem Stuhl sitzen? (Shouldn't you be in that chair?)"  
"Warum sollte iich sein, wenn du hier bist? (Why should I be when you are here?)"

They were both questions, and yet none were answered as soft laughter filled the room.  
And yet, laughter was soon replaced by the thousands and thousands of kisses shared by the two. It had been a while since the leaders shared that form of affection, and they both missed it. They missed the kissing, the laughter and the touching. They simply wished to be together more, do more than just send endless amounts of letters.

As Adolf finally stopped his laughter, he bit the tip of his paintbrush yet again, wishing to tease his partner in the slightest bit possible. He missed being seductive to anyone that would reciprocate his feelings, so he used that to try and make his significant other react in a positive way.

Stalin's laughter also halted, gazing at Hitler with pleased amber eyes, a hint of an enticing emotion dancing across his eyes. His hands, which were still situated on the taller man's shoulders, seemed to grab his shoulders in a slightly rough manner, hard enough to please the other, but not to aggressive as to hurt his love.

Hitler suppressed a small moan, leaning his head backwards to look at Iosif admiring each and every facial feature that he held.  
The soviet planted a small, soft peck on Adolf's neck, near his Adam's apple, humming. Adolf bit his lip.

"Wenn..." he started, hesitating in the slightest of manners.  
"Wenn Sie fortfahrern mochten, konnenn wir in das Schalfzimmer nebenan gehen," he said in a hushed tone, swollowing the bit of saliva he didn't notice forming in his mouth.  
"Sicherlich," Stalin had answered, agreeing with Adolf's idea.  
The taller got up from his seat in the chair facing the canvas, still holding the brush she used before in his artist hands.

As Hitler walked to his right towards the door that connected his study to his bedroom. Stalin was following suit.  
Not long after, the two arrived in the decent sized room. Adolf sat down on the soft cushion covered by white sheets that was his bed, patting the spcae to his right, inviting Iosif to sit beside him.  
As the soviet leader sat down, the atmosphere became slightly awkward, but the two didn't care as they met for yet another kiss, this one being slightly rougher, more demaning, needier than the sweet previous ones they shared in the German's study.  
They wished to touch and feel each other, and Hitler felt grateful because of the fact that he ordered all of his caretakers and his bodyguard to leave his residence alone for the day, allowing them to visit their families or simply be rid of their jobs for a day.

Stalin's tongue portruded out of his mouth, tentatively colliding with the other's bottom lip, pleading in a way for entrance.  
Not long after the request, its wish was granted, Adolf allowing the other's muscle to explore his wet cavern.  
Their tongues twisted and tangled in ways that could only be described as unholy. Afte a few minutes of the dirty action, the two separated, taking in gulps of air.  
Hitler sighed, placing small, delicate pecks across the shorter's neck, grabbing his hands and intertwining their fingers together. It was a nice feeling, without a doubt, and that very feeling drove the two into even more desire.  
It was wrong, illegal even, and they both knew it. And yet, they didn't stop their actions.

They couldn't.

As Stalin didn't wish to leave his partner to do all of the work, one of his hands left Adolf, only to still keep contact by placing it on his shoulder. He, of course, used his right hand. His left, as far as Iosif and told Hitler, was severely damaged because of an accident when he was young, so it was clumsier and harder to use than his right.  
Adolf had loved how he could disclose everything with him, the two sharing both simple information, but also secrets.

And yet, Hitler had never discussed one of his own secrecies, one that he was especially self-concious about. He never expected to get this far with the soviet, so he'd always kept it to himself. But there he was, giving in into the dirty acts of their affection.  
Although he began to subconciously worry, that thought was washed away, as if it was written on sand and a wave of saltwater came crashing down on it, wiping the yellow surface clean. All of that, just by gazing at the amber eyes of Iosif. He loved the color they bore. Adolf sometimes became jelous of them, his own brown eyes not satisfying him.

"Ich liebe deine Augen."  
Stalin chuckled. He was flattered, yes, but he never expected that the mighty leader of the Third Reich to be so soppy at times. That made him smile yet again. "Danke," he said, moving his right hand down on Adolf's hip, slightly massaging it.

Hitler lips also upturned, not long before he traveled down on the soviet yet again, letting go of Stalin's left hand, his own fingers unbuttoning the shorter's shirt, exposing his chest to his eyes.  
Iosif's right hand decided to leave his hip, helping him get rid of the piece of clothing with the help of his damaged, noticeably smaller left hand. Although the Georgian man had hidden his hand for as long as he could remember after becoming the leader of Soviet Russia, when he was with the very person he trusted most, he felt as if he could show him everything of his past that he disliked, and he wouldn't be judged or shamed for who he was.  
In any other case, as the pesky buttons of his shirt were finally unbuttoned, he slowly shrugged it off of his shoulders, then slowly slid the cuffs away from his wrists, the rest of the fabric following suit until it was off.  
The German didn't realize he was staring at the man in front of him until in was too late. A blush rose up to his cheeks, a little bit darker than the previous ones that adormed his face.

"Hinlegen," Hitler commanded.  
Stalin was slightly seduced by the tone of the younger's request, but nonethelesscomplied, lying down on his back in the middle of the bed, anticipating the chancellor's actions.  
Speaking of which, Adolf had also bee starting to rid of his shirt, yet his actions were quicker, more aggressive, just like his usual behaviour, with some exceptions, of course.  
As the fabric was off and thrown away on the floor, Hitler had finally sat properly on the bed rather than on the edge of it, although that didn't last long as he placed his left leg near Iosif's riight hip, his other leg doing the same to the left side of the soviet. He was straddling the shorter.

Leaning down to face Stalin, Hitler had started to kiss all the way from the Georgian's neck, down to his collarbone. There were a few shy, yet tentative licks here and there, but it quickly became clear that Hitler was uneasy about the whole thing. Iosif left him to his thoughts, deciding that remaining quiet was the thing to do here and there.  
Adolf decided to go back up to the soviet's neck, yet this time he used his tongue instead of his lips. Admittedly, that felt better for Stalin, a low groan escaping his mouth. He was suppressing the many sounds that threatened to leave his mouth.

The German did not dare to look up at the Georgian, working his tongue in ways he wouldn't have expected to use on a man, or anyone for that matter.  
And yet, after toying with Stalin's neck, for a little while, Hitler had decided to go low again, yet this time he dared to go lower than the soviet leader's collarbone, reaching the start of his abdomen.  
He used similar tatics that he used for Iosif's neck on the path of skin he was occupied with at that moment, the new action he picked was sucking. He would do that softly at first, barely reddening up the skin, but then he would go harder, making the flesh turn into a purplish color that was sure to last. And yet, it was strategically placed in a space where it couldn't be seen.

Succumbing to the pleasure, Stalin decided to free his throat of witholding the obscene sounds caused by Adolf's skillful tactics. Describing those acts were somewhat similar to describing war strategies, only for it to be in a sexual manner.  
Hitler finally looked up at Iosif, his half closed eyes throwing the soviet into more pleasure. It was minimal, but still present, making his stomach burn with desire to see and feel the German is such explicit ways.  
Those thoughts were what made the soviet sit up, denying Hitler his freedom from straddling him as he grabbed the taller's hips, grinding into him ever so slightly.

Adolf gasped, then bit his lip. He was enjoying himself, of course, yet the thought of his malformed genitalia was making him anxious. The way Stalin placed his hands on the taller's belt's edge was indicating that the shorter wished to see all of him.  
Placing his palms over Iosif's hands, Adolf took a breath.

"Wart," he said, swalloing.

"Was ist es?" Stalin asked, looking at the German.

Hitler swallowed again, but that didn't help the growing anxiety that manifested within him. Yet, he wished for his partner to know his secret. He had to, after all of the secrets the soviet shared with him. It was only fair, even if his beliefs weren't really about equality, unlike the man sitting before him.

"Ich..." he started, looking away in shame.  
"Ja?" Stalin asked, indicating that he was listening. As he always did, and always would do.

"Meine... Meine Hoden sind deformiert," he said, the tone of his voice almost a whisper. He was embarrassed and ashamed, but he would rather suffer at that moment than later, when all of his clothes would be off.  
Stalin gazed at him for a few moments.

"Und warum ist das so schiimm? Es ist doch nicht deine Schuld," Iosif said, moving his fingers away from the edge of Adolf's belt and to his hips, rubbing them in a gentle manner.  
"Ich habe auch mainen Arm, der lastig ist, und ich habe mit ihnen daruber gesprochen," the soviet man said, tapping his left fingers on Hitler's right side.  
"Es ist in Ordnung."

Adolf turned his head to eye Stalin, sightly shocked yet relieved.

"Danke fur ihr Verstandis."

The two shared another kiss, which would soon end up to be another battle of their tongues. This time, Adolf had taken control, his appendage feeling every nook and cranny of the Georgian man's wet cavern, a pleasurable feeling.

As the two parted, Hitler took Iosif's hands away from his lips, placing them back on his belt, gaining some sort of confidence. Iosif looked up at the taller for consent, wanting to make sure that was what he really wished for. He was met with a nod.  
Stalin slowly unbuckled the brown leather article of clothing, the pants that were attached to it following shortly. It was a little bit difficult to get rid of those two, due to Hitler's position, but they managed.

And right then and there, it had been revealed to the soviet the German's bodily state in the bottom region. The taller looked away in shame, but Iosif didn't care for what his love looked like, rolling his own body against the other, a spark of pleasure going through him.  
It was soon clear that the chancellor felt the same desire, a moan leaving his lips. Noticing how the action brought both parties satisfaction, he repeated it, the room slowly being littered with their quiet sounds.

"Es ist nur fair, dass Sie sich auch ausziehen," Hitler had uttered, circling the leather object with his thumbs.  
Stalin chuckled, grabbing the younger's hands with his own, moving them to where his belt could be unbuckled and rid of.

"Es ist nur fair, dass du es fur mich tust, da ich es auch fir dich getan habe," he teased, removing his palms.

The German let out a small laugh, getting rid of the pesky article of clothing that witheld the soviet leader's pants, soon removing those as well.  
Adolf's cheeks quickly shifted from a light pink to red at the sight of his significant other's bare body. He sighed, pushing Stalin slightly to get him to sit down, continuing with his kisses, licks and sucks, moving lower than ever before, dangerously close to the other's genitals. He wished to tease the shorter, and so he did. The sucks became softer rather than harsh, the licks were sparse and the kisses weren't as wet as before. That, of course, dissatisfied Iosif, which is why he grabbed Hitler by his waist, flipping him over, the German now being at the mercy of the soviet.

Of course, Adolf was rather confused at first, but then he came back to reality. He swallowed, staring at the Georgian man towering over him, despite his height.  
He initiated yet another french kiss, seeming to very much enjoy those. Using that as a distraction, he moved his hands downwards, teasing the v of Adolf's lower region with is thumbs.

Parting away, Stalin directly moved towards the taller's chest, sucking on one of Hitler's nipples, swirling his skillful tongue around the small nub, his thumbs inching closer to the chancellor's penis, teasing his one testicle ever so slightly.  
Afolf moaned and groaned at the touches, small sparks of satisfaction going through him. And yet, of course, he longed for more. He could never stoop as low as to beg for affection, so he simply waited patiently, hoping that Iosif would soon give him more pleasure.

And certainly, the best things come to those who wait. Hitler had been taught this lesson yet again when he felt his partner's tongue barely touch the tip of his penis, causing yet another wine to leave his now drooling mouth. Stalin almost let out a short laugh at the taller's sensibility, deciding to allow him some actual satisfaction by tracing his tongue from the base of his dick to the very tip, which wasn't much, considering Adolf's size.  
Speaking of which, the German shuddered, a moan that was higher in volume left his lips, his hips shamefully bucking upwards. He wished to feel that pleasure again, his hard penis lifting upwards to a certain extent. That made Iosif let out a low chuckle, repeating the action in a more tentative manner, going slower yet somehow harder with his tongue. Two wives really do give a man experience, as it seemed.

Adolf dug his fingers in a patch of Stalin's hair, pleading the soviet leader to gratify him more. Not one to leave his love's desires be unsastisfied, he obliged, taking the tip of his penis in his warm mouth, sending a bolt of satisfaction through Hitler's body. New sounds he never thought would leave his mouth were filling up the room in a combination of shame and desire. He could feel his cheeks burning, yet he could do nothing about it.

Stalin took in each and every one of Adolf's reactions as a sign to keep going, to make him feel better, to satisfy him. That made his sex drive rise, taking all of the taller's small girth, using his tongue to lick him, and even hollowing his cheeks to suck, making Hitler's eyes roll back to gaze at the ceiling of the bedroom, his fingers lightly gripping a small portion of the fabric that represented the sheets.  
As the Georgian began moving his head up and down on the taller's dick, Hitler's moans noticeably rose in volume yet again, his body feeling as if it were near a fire, he was feeling hot all over.

Stalin kept his movement up for a while, but right as Adolf began moaning louder and let out more whines, signaling he was close to releasin, he took his mouth off of the younger's genitals. Hitler became visibly upset at that, almost letting out a whimper. Iosif hushed him with another kiss, his right hand feeling the nightstand's surface, looking for the brush Adolf had brought when they entered the room. Taking the object in his hand, he pulled away from the kiss, pointing the petite tip of the paintbrush at Adolf's lips.  
The German was taken aback by that, but nonetheless opened his mouth, taking the wooden tip of the painting utensil through his lips, then biting onto it. Recalling when Hitler painted Iosif, the shorter pointed out how he loved it when the artist bit his paintbrush.

Stalin bit his lip in return, then pushed the utensil deeper into the chancellor's mouth. He repeated the action until Adolf gagged, stating his own limit. He was quite confused on what he had to do, yet the german covered the wooded stick that held the small, iron piece connected to the watercolor stained hair of the brush, to the wooden part in his saliva, swirling his tongue around the object, sometimes biting it, leaving teeth marks on the paintbrush.

Afterwards, Stalin took the painting utensil out of the artist's mouth, tracing the tip of it all the way from his chin towards his rear, hesitantly circling the German's asshole with the wet paintbrush. It was such an odd experience, and yet it felt good. Adolf had allowed a moan to escape him, and that was the encouraging Iosif needed to slowly push the painting utensil inside of the chancellor's backdoor, going in slowly.  
It certainly hurt a lot at first, the taller being new to the feeling, but as the miutes passed, he gew more and more comfortable, and soon enough he was moaning and groaning again. The moment the brush had been fully inserted, Stalin slowly slid it out, then back in. He was trying to prepare the younger, to stretch him. Yes, it was a queer way of doing so, but there they were, doing it.

When Stalin decided enough was enough, he slid out the paintbrush, placing it aside. Hitler whined in dissatisfaction, but that quickly washed away as his left leg was being lifted and placed over the soviet's shoulder, his dick being positioned near the German's asshole.  
With a nod of agreement from the younger, Iosif slowly pushed inside, stretching Hitler even more than before. It hurt, so very much, but the pleasure that came was too worth it to tell Stalin to stop.

"Bist du in Ordnung?" the Georgian asked, a concerned emotion spreading across his face.

"Ja, ja. Ich muss mich nut annassen," he said, reassuring his partner.

A few minutes passed, and since Hitler couldn't feel much pain anymore, he decided to buck his hips upwards to test if he was ready, and the pleased grown that left him was a sign for both of them.  
Stalin was so gentle at first, being careful wiith his speed, as if Adolf had suddenly become a glass globe he needed to be extremely cautious with. Hitler admired that, and was even flattered by it, of course.  
As the taller became familiar with the feeling of Stalin's girth inside of him, he wished to pick up the pace.

"Schneller, Bitte" he uttered, placing his hands of Iosif's shoulders.  
The shorter complied, picking up the pace, while also getting a bit rougher in the most minimal manners that existed, showing his care even more than before.  
Adolf kept making obscene sounds, and with Stalin's own groans, the room was again filled with noise as the two made love.

It felt good, and Hitler was jovial that he managed to share such an important moment with the love of his life, Iosif Vissarionovich Stalin.  
He began speaking his name while making love. He couldn't help but adore the way the soviet's name rolled off his tongue every time he hit a spot inside of himself, he wondered if that was what heaven would feel like.

Stalin's pace soon became quick, his movements soft yet rough, his right hand's fingers digging into Hitler's thigh. That would surely leave a few marks.  
Adolf's own fingers dug into Iosif's shoulders, gripping onto them as he let his mouth create any kind of sound that would indicate how good he felt, how amazing the Georgian had made him feel, he wished Stalin felt the same.

Another spot was hit inside of Adolf's rear, but that one felt even better than the rest. So he cried out in bliss, confessing how that thrust hit the perfect place within himself. After hearing his partener's cries and moans that formed such words, he tried his best in recreating the action. His attempts soon paid off, he could hear Hitler let out another, louder moan. He felt good, oh so very good, and the feeling only grew and grew when he knew that Adolf felt the same.  
He caused the taller such pleasure, such warmth. That made him bite his lip, suppressing a smile. Simply knowing how his actions could bring the German so many positive emotions made him feel accomplished, in a way.  
The pace changed again, their hips moving faster, more desperate, more desire filling them up to the brim and spilling out, the temperature of both their bodies and their room shooting through the rooof and beyond, it was all in excess. Yet they didn't care. It felt that good. They wished it would never go away.

Yet, sadly, all good things must comee to an end, and come was the right word to use.

As a simple, yet loud motion, louder than any other had left Adolf's throat, he came, the white liquid spilling on his stomach, a few drops landing on the sheets below him.  
It wasn't too long before Iosif had done the same action, yet, instead of spilling it everywhere, he simply filled up the taller to the edge and beyond, a loud groan of his own being liberated from the depths of his throat.

As the two rode out their highs, they looked at each other yet again, their eyes meeting, as always.  
They kissed. It was short and sweet, compared to the other ones they shared, but they still enjoyed it.

  
The two leaders panted and panted, trying to catch each other's breaths. Iosif decided to pull out of Adolf's rear, leaving the taller to feel cold and empty as the remaining come had started leaking out onto the sheets.  
Sighing, Stalin took the messy blanket from beneath Hitler, placing it over both of them. The German got closer to the soviet leader, until he was in the shorter's arms, wrapping his own appendages around the Russian leader.

It would be tiring to stay up, so the two decided to simply stay in each other's arms. othing could bother them in that very moment, as they were content and satisfied as sleep slowly began to take a toll on the two, their session clearly caussing them fatigue. So, well, they simply allowed the darkness of the sunset to engulf them.

**Author's Note:**

> This has over 8000 words.  
> Eight thousand words.  
> Eight. Thousand. Words.


End file.
